


A Return to the Suns

by Falcine



Series: Wild Living [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Gen, Mother-Son Relationship, Obi-Wan is mysteriously missing, Qui-Gon Lives, Tatooine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 11:17:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6192937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Falcine/pseuds/Falcine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After years of training under Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn, Anakin comes home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Return to the Suns

Anakin first realizes he had become someone selfish when he steps again on Tatooine. 

Tatooine devours him whole, and it is like he is a child again, clinging to his mother’s leg and trying to avert his gaze while taking in everything around him. The sands whip like claws, digging into his cheeks, and Anakin presses his knuckles to his face, wondering when his hands grew so soft.

There are callouses, of course, but in all the wrong places. Anakin has a warrior’s hands, not a worker’s hands, and they are dressed in soft, fine clothes that are all wrong for the desert.

He is wearing black. 

This bothers him the most. 

Qui-Gon seems to blend into the sands and crowds, long trailing robes the same shade of brown as everyone else. Anakin sticks out like a sore thumb--nobody wears black in the desert. As they walk through towards the city, he notices with a start that this is not Mos Eisley. 

“Master Qui-Gon,” he murmurs, fingers searching for the familiar roughness of his mentor’s robes. “What are we doing in Mos Espa?” 

Qui-Gon looks down at him, mouth quirking in a familiar faint smile when his eyes flicker down to where Anakin is clinging to his robes. Anakin rolls his eyes and tugs more purposefully, raising an eyebrow. “Did you take a wrong turn?” he asks. There is a treacherous rising hope in the sudden lump in his throat. 

When Qui-Gon’s smile widens, his eyes practical twinkle. Anakin isn’t sure how that’s possible in this scattered sunlight, but there’s no denying the spark of mischievousness he’s come to recognize in the past ten years. “Ah, I thought you were piloting, Anakin.” 

The laugh escapes despite them having walked deeper into the streets of Mos Espa, where the familiar sights threaten to overwhelm him. 

Anakin does not smile, but he feels lighter, somehow. 

“You gave me the coordinates, Master.” 

Qui-Gon suddenly stops. Anakin waits, patiently, settled into the knowledge that Qui-Gon  _ had  _ come here purposefully which meant… 

“Ah,” his master says, “I seem to recall somebody telling me he’d come back here, someday. To free all the slaves.”

Anakin swallows. “Master… the council…” 

“The council will receive a report that says we ran out of fuel and had to make a quick stop at Mos Espa before heading to retrieve information about the bounty hunter in Mos Eisley. It’s not as if this is a particularly time sensitive case.” Qui-Gon shrugs.

He places his hands on Anakin’s shoulders, warm and solid. He is nothing like desert sands, Anakin thinks. His mentor is reliable, like a warm breeze, not harsh.

But the desert suns beat down on his back like his own heart.

Qui-Gon looks at him, eyes full of warmth, so different from the relentless glare of light above them. “Go, Anakin. I will be here when you return.” 

_ When you return,  _ Anakin thinks, but it is enough. It has always been enough. 

He ducks his head, grinning, and sprints into the crowd. 

Mos Espa is in shambles, but that’s nothing new. Mos Espa is falling apart at the seams, breaking under the dust and wind and storms. Anakin runs his hands along the edges of the stone houses, feeling rocks break away under his fingertips. 

Around him, people talk. Anakin doesn’t understand all the words--not anymore--but the clipped tones mixed in snippets of Basic are still familiar sounds. There is already sand in his boots, as if it simply appeared there upon setting foot on the planet, but Anakin finds he doesn’t mind it as much. 

Anakin has not set foot on Tatooine since he left it, but that doesn’t matter. 

His feet know the way.

He finds himself standing outside Watto’s shop and this is no surprise. What is a surprise is how there is nobody but Watto himself, cleaning a broken droid and grumbling to himself. 

“Ma--Watto.” 

Watto looks up. Anakin takes a step back instinctively. He is not used to this--looking down at Watto, but it is so  _ so  _ satisfying. His mouth curls into a grin. 

“Closed for today,” Watto mutters, then bends back down, scrubbing roughly at the droid. 

Anakin’s hand shoots out, reaching for the droid on instinct, and he scowls and leans in, hand landing on the rough wall behind Watto instead. “I’m not looking to buy anything,” he says softly. He wonders if Mom is in the shop somewhere, working, or sick or… his thoughts trail off until he’s left with his heart in his throat and panic panic panic--

“Then scram, boy.” 

“Where is my mother?” Anakin manages to ask.

Watto stops. Looks up again. Squints. 

Then, “ _ Ani? _ ” 

Anakin leans in closer, turning just so that the lightsaber clipped at his belt glints in the sun. “Where is my mother?” he asks again, more forcefully. 

The nervous buzz he can faintly feel emanating from Watto is new but makes it seem like the years away were worth it. Anakin’s grin widens. 

Watto wipes his hands roughly with the greasy cloth. His wings beat furtively in the dry air, sending little bursts of dusty sand all around him. He does not look at Anakin when he speaks. “I sold her. Shop’s not-ah doing so well lately, you know?” 

The panic rises in his throat. Watto was, despite everything, a good  _ master.  _ His thoughts snarl around the words--what does it mean to be a good slave master? But Anakin feels faint at the thought of his mother being sold to someone cruel. 

“Where?” he growls. 

Watto cringes back. “Cliegg Lars. Moisture farmer at the edge of the city! I swear-ah I don’t-ah know anything else!”

He is telling the truth, but the truth stings.

Anakin looks out towards the west, where the moisture farms are, and squints. The dusty wind threatens to blow into his eyes. 

He wants to leave without another word, the shop with broken bits and pieces laying around, still, bringing back far too many memories he’d long since tried to forget. Instead, he pushes past Watto into the back, knowing he will dream about this moment for too long afterwards if he doesn’t see it all. 

To his credit, Watto doesn’t say a word, only trails slightly behind Anakin, his wings beating in the tension. 

The back of the shop is even more dilapidated than he remembers. Anakin sees the small cot he used to call his own, shoved up against some spare ship exhaust parts. He wonders how he and Mom ever fit together on it. He slowly lowers himself down, sitting on the rough straw stuffed mattress and looking around.

Anakin blinks.

Scattered everywhere around him are metal scrap parts, jarring and broken. Anakin remembers tinkering with the pieces as a child, remembers Mom’s warm pride and even Watto’s reluctant praise. 

Now, older, but evidently not wiser, all Anakin sees is junk. 

The place bleeds with hardship, imprinted in the force itself. Anakin can feel the pain and tears that sink into the ground. He places a hand on the walls and imagines Mom kneeling, scrubbing, fixing, selling, making up for all the time he’d wasted messing around with useless metal.

He can almost see it. 

Anakin bends down, head in hands, pain throbbing through his mind. 

He sits for a very long time.

He sits until everything fades away but the image of Mom kneeling in front of him, smoothing away his wayward bangs, smiling so warmly.  _ Don’t look back,  _ she’d told him, and he’d taken the lesson far too close to heart. 

When Anakin opens his eyes, he sees Watto still hovering nervously in the front of the shop. His wings beat a frantic frenzy, his mouth opens and closes, teething clickin. 

“I’m leaving,” Anakin says. He does not need to say that he will  _ never  _ come back. They both know this.

Watto moves aside.

Outside, the suns sear his eyes. Anakin squints, scanning the distance for the cluster of moisture farms. 

Now, the streets are unfamiliar. He’s never been out this far before. He sees the peaks and valleys of canyons in the distance, traces them with his eyes. He wonders if he could still race around and not get himself killed, suddenly hates the caution that constricts his throat.

It’s harder and harder to walk through the sand. 

Anakin doesn’t know where he’s going, but, then, he takes another step and suddenly there is Mom. Blazing. Fierce.

He breaks into a run.

His feet slip and slide in the sand, and the sun is too hot and he feels sweat trickling down his neck, but Anakin runs. 

Cliegg Lars owns a small moisture farm close enough to town. Anakin almost trips on the moisture stabilizer, but he runs past, and then there is the door. His fist hurts when it pounds, and the sound rattles in his skull.

Anakin bounces on the balls of his feet, nine years old and impatient again, feeling the thrumming energy of  _ Mom  _ just behind the door. 

He sees her. As soon as the door swings open. He  _ sees  _ her. 

Shmi Skywalker’s face is weathered and worn, leathery wrinkles lining her forehead and the corners of her eyes. Her mouth rests slightly turned down, and her eyes fixate somewhere just at his shoulder, as if she is not used to looking at people yet. Her hair is dishevelled, wispy strands of flyaway curls peeling from the tight braid it is put it. 

Shmi Skywalker has a farmer’s face, only a touch less weary better than a slave’s face. She wears the same marks of labour, only missing the tinge of shame and lethargy. 

Shmi Skywalker is beautiful. 

Anakin’s knees buckle, and he falls down in the door of the house, hands reaching out and searching for the familiar roughness of her shirt. 

It is a testament to Shmi Skywalker’s strength that she only grabs onto his black, almost silky, completely wrong robes just as tightly. 

“Mom,” Anakin breathes, clinging to her. 

It is not separation that is difficult, Anakin thinks. He had not thought of Shmi in too long, not since he left, only had her presence in the back of his mind, jumping out whenever he saw something notable. 

Now, he thinks of leaving with Master Qui-Gon on their ship again, and tears prick at his eyes. “Mom.” 

Mom’s hands are rough, but they always were. She strokes his face carefully, brushes back the bristles of hair, the padawan braid, tucks her hands under the curve of his jaw. Mom doesn’t say anything, but Anakin doesn’t need to hear her voice, only needs to feel her hands. 

“I’ve come back,” he says. Then, he holds onto her tighter still. “Only for a little while.”

Mom’s eyes tighten a little, and she nods, once.

Then, she gently takes his hands and lifts him to his feet. Anakin thinks that her movements are so graceful, still, so soft, so warm, so gentle. He climbs up, grateful, and he’s looking down on her, too, now.

“Stay with me for a while,” she says, her voice gravelly as though through misuse. She smooths out the collar of his robes, tiny threads catching on the tips of her fingers. “You must be so tired from coming all this way,” she murmurs, back creaking when she steps back.

Anakin closes his eyes, opens them, follows her into the house. 

Inside, he is a black slash on white sand walls. He is heavy boots after her light steps. He is rage and anger--at himself?--after her self assured calm. 

“I have some fruits on the table, Anakin,” Mom says, and Anakin follows the line of her arm to where the bowl sits, innocuously, a few half dried rolling fruits inside. “Help yourself.” Mom’s smile lights up her face.

“Can--can I help with something?” Anakin’s mouth is dry from the desert.

Mom leads him to the table, pushing down on his shoulders. Anakin wilts, even though he barely feels her touch. “Wait here,” she says. “I’ll get you some water.” 

The house is unfamiliar. Anakin is a warrior in a farmer’s home. A soldier useless against a war with dirt. An ambassador with only the suns and sky to negotiate with. 

Lightsabers are useless against the wind. 

When Mom returns with the glass of water, Anakin gulps it down greedily. It splashes around, falling on his face in how eager he is. Little droplets fall to the ground, and when Anakin drags a hand across his silent mouth, he feels the moisture seeping into his skin. 

“How long do you have?” Mom asks. 

“I don’t know,” Anakin answers. “Ma--I--Do you remember Qui-Gon?”

Mom dips her head in a nod. “Of course I do, Anakin. He freed you.” 

“He’ll come get me, later, I think,” Anakin says. “Or I’ll go to him. I can’t stay too long.” The words feel like they are being torn from his mouth. 

“Tell me about everything, Ani,” Mom says, then. She turns towards the counter, a small cloth in her hand as she begins to wipe down the wooden tables. 

Anakin is halfway out of his chair and ready to help--the sight of Mom scrubbing at the kitchen, cleaning up after them all, the sight of sand clinging to the ground even now all he can see--when Mom turns and gives him a look. 

It isn’t stern. It is a look she’s given him many times in the past.

Mom’s eyes twinkle in the same way Qui-Gon’s do. A small mischievous smile twists at her lips. “Sit down, Ani,” she says. “Let me take care of you now that you’re here.”

She brings him a small bowl of porridge, hot and steaming. Delicious. 

Anakin sits, watching Mom bend down and wipe at the ground, on her hands and knees, her hair falling in her face. He talks about the Jedi temple, about Qui-Gon. He talks about training, even takes out the lightsaber to show her once or twice. 

They laugh when he singes part of the tapestry when she wants to see the blade and Mom says she’s always hated it anyways. 

Cliegg Lars isn’t home, but no one mentions that.

When Anakin can see the twin rays of light setting from out the tattered cloth of the window, Mom comes to take his hands. She’s finally stopped cleaning, or working, or giving him more food every time he finishes whatever she’s placed before him. Mom’s hands are still rough, and when Anakin rubs soft circles in her palm, he feels the ridges of old scars, raised and red. 

“I have to go soon,” he says. 

Mom’s lips tremble, but she smiles anyways. “I miss you already, Ani.”

“I love you,” Anakin says.

“When will you come home again?”

Anakin bites his lips. He doesn’t want to lie to Mom, but the truth is that he does not know.

Mom understands. Mom always understands. 

She plucks one of the bright red fruits--the best one in the bowl-and presses it into his hands. “For the road,” she says, stroking his cheek softly again.

It is the sight of the plump fruit and the thought of biting into it, juices running down his chin, that breaks something inside of him. 

“Mom,” Anakin says, suddenly unable to look her in the eye. “Mom, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t come. I’m sorry I didn’t try. I’m so sorry I didn’t come earlier I promise--I’ll help I’ll convince them to let me come back and--” 

Mom’s sudden embrace and soft shushing sounds muffles the rest of his apologies, turns them into mutters into her smokey clothes. “Shush, Anakin, it’s alright,” she murmurs, smoothing down his hair. “I don’t need your help.” 

There are tears, now, spilling from his eyes, and Anakin tries to squeeze his eyes shut, stem the flow.

“I’m  _ so sorry, _ ” he says again. 

Mom shakes her head. “I don’t regret everything I’ve given you, Ani.”

He believes in her absolutely and this is what hurts the most. “But I never deserved any of it,” he says. 

Mom pulls back, tipping his chin up so he is looking her in her worn eyes. Mom looks dead tired, but she is still smiling. Mom is always smiling. 

The suns are setting in the background. They cast long shadows in the house, everything tinted a dim shade of blue that turns Mom’s face into a mosaic of darks and lights. Mom’s always belonged here, her warm browns and dips and valleys of her face like desert canyons so beautiful. 

“You’re my son,” Mom simply says, her support like the desert bedrock. “You deserve everything.”    
  



End file.
